The biting wind has made my ears go numb. No sound escapes from Winter’s freezing spell which makes the country silent, grey and dumb. Behind the weathered, leafless oaks a dell I’m heading for to ‘scape the silent cold. The dale dips down below the fields now bare, where beech trees stand around since days of old. They’re gnarled and bent as if in silent prayer, reminding me to ask not hills for help, but cry out desperately to God to rescue me from Winter’s aches and chills, his healing hands to hold this heart down trod’. And when I looked again, Winter’d withdrawn, God’s joyful Spring arrived with blessèd dawn.